What Child is This
by swatkat
Summary: Emma Swan has had enough excitement to last her a lifetime. Someone explain that to the idiots running amok with stolen pixie dust and, yeah, that part where there's a baby.
1. Chapter 1

1.

It all goes to hell with Regina's phonecall.

* * *

Saturday. The crack of dawn—or, well, an _early for Saturday _hour. Emma's been dragged out of bed by her cheeky nuisance of a son and handed a mug of coffee by her shiny, morning-person former roomie slash mother—god, what is her _life_—which she's clutching on to for dear life while David makes pancakes and smiles at Henry and okay, maybe her life isn't _that _horrible. It's Saturday and David makes great strawberry pancakes.

Domesticity isn't so bad, Emma thinks. It's weird and occasionally stifling, to the point where she has to run off to the docks or take the Bug for a spin in the middle of the night, just to get some air and_ breathe_. But _this_, this laughter and warmth and the feeling that you're _wanted_, even when you're grumpy in the morning and prone to breaking domestic appliances by just _looking_ at them—Emma did not touch the new toaster, no sir—this Emma doesn't mind. She might even get used to it someday.

'More coffee?' Mary Margaret says, brushing an arm on her shoulder.

'Please,' Emma says.

Who is she kidding? She soaks up every minute of this utterly mundane domesticity, basking in its glory.

She's contemplating a lazy day—involving the hammock that David put up for_ her_ in their shiny new backyard (she may or may not have gotten into multiple juvenile fights with Henry over its ownership) and a beer or two—when her phone rings, and Henry says, 'It's my mom. Can I pick up, Emma?'

'Sure, kid,' Emma tells him. It's probably for him anyway.

She watches his face light up as he says, 'Hi! Mom! Emma's drinking coffee. How are you?'

Things are less strained between them, now, and Emma's glad that it is because whatever _else _might be wrong with Regina, she loves the kid something fierce. Henry needs that in his life, no, _deserves _all the love and nurturing that he can get.

And if she's entirely honest with herself, it's kind of nice—having someone to share Henry with. Someone who really _gets _that sharp ache inside her chest every time she thinks about him in Pan's clutches or that urge to rip the entire world apart because he's _her son_ and she'll do anything to keep him safe.

Even if that someone is Regina, who wouldn't know how to 'share' unless it's pain and suffering you're talking about.

Truth be told, Emma doesn't share very well either. She's never had anything worth sharing in the first place.

'Emma?'

She snaps back to attention at the sound of his voice. 'Yeah?'

'Mom wants to talk to you,' Henry says, handing her the phone.

Emma gulps. It's not that she's _afraid_ of talking to Regina—that'd be ridiculous—except where she kind of is. Those butterfly flutters in her stomach every time Regina calls her 'Miss Swan' in that way of hers, like smoke and honey and bad, bad things of the sort Emma never could stay away from?

'Sheriff Swan. I need your assistance.'

Yeah. Those.

She sits up straight like a well-trained dog. _God_. 'I… Is everything all right?'

'Everything's fine,' Regina says, curt. 'I need your assistance with an… investigation.'

Curse you, stupid butterflies!

'What sort of an investigation?' Emma tells her, putting on her best formal Sherriff voice. She always gets the feeling Regina sees right through it.

'It would be best if we spoke in person,' Regina says, and hangs up. And surely Emma can't be blamed if she puts the phone down a little too hard on the countertop, causing Mary Margaret to wince.

'Guys, I gotta go,' she tells the three curious faces gaping at her. 'Regina says she needs my help with something.'

Well-trained dog is right.

'Is she all right?' Henry says, concern written all over his face in a way that makes her heart grow three sizes. 'Can I come with you?' he says, plaintive.

'No,' Emma says firmly. She isn't sure what sort of investigation Regina wants her for, but somehow she gets the feeling it's not something she wants Henry to be a part of, not right now. 'She's fine. She wants me to look over a few things for her, that's all.'

Henry pouts, but Emma can tell it's a cleverly manufactured one. And she can recognize her kid's expressions now, how awesome is that?

'And besides, Henry, we're learning how to make arrows today, remember?' Mary Margaret, no, _Snow_ tells him—Mary Margaret wouldn't have known how to hold a bow if she tried, let alone go full on warrior princess—and Henry brightens almost instantly.

Emma drinks some more of Snow's very fine coffee.

* * *

'I'll be at the station if you need me for anything,' David tells her when she's dressed and showered and marginally more prepared for Regina's voice doing… _things_ to her. 'Okay?'

'Okay,' she says, and does not stiffen or back away when he places an affectionate hand on her shoulder. It's progress. Go, Emma!

'Stay away from that hammock, kid,' she tells Henry on her way out, knowing it's where he'll probably insist on being found when she makes her way back home.

Regina's her usual charming self when Emma knocks on her door—that is to say, superior and condescending, eyeing Emma's jacket like she'd very much like to tear it off her and… all right, all right, that's _not_ something she needs to think about right now. Jesus.

'Hey,' Emma says. So what if her mouth's a little dry. She's got this. 'What's up?'

'Come in, Miss Swan,' Regina says, opening the door a little wider so that Emma can walk inside.

'You said something about an investigation?'

'Yes,' Regina says, and now there's a visible chink in her formidable I-was-the-Evil-Queen-fear-me-peasant! mask. Somewhere along the line she learned to read her son's other mother's expressions as well. The thought doesn't freak her out as much as it should. They're something of a team now, aren't they? 'There was… a package at my doorstep this morning. I need you to find out who sent it, and why.'

'What sort of a package?' Emma says. She can feel herself growing increasingly incensed at the thought of some idiot sending Regina hatemail or some other crap at her _home_, a home that she shares with _their son_ every now and then.

'You'll have to see for yourself,' Regina says, pursing her lips. Uh-oh.

There's a gnawing feeling in her gut, one that says _this is no good, Emma Swan, run!_ She ignores it and follows Regina into the drawing room, only to come to a dead halt at the sight of the small bundle on Regina's giant couch, a small bundle that looks unmistakably like…

'A baby?'

'As you can see,' Regina says.

Right on cue, the baby begins to gurgle.

* * *

'Right. So.' Emma clears her throat. 'When did you say this happened again?'

Regina's been remarkably understanding about Emma's pressing need to _sit the fuck down _and_ stop hyperventilating_; even fetched her coffee while carrying the… _baby_ in one arm, like it's second nature for her. The same baby-in-a-basket that's currently pulling at her hair and causing her to make exasperated slash affectionate faces at it.

It's surreal.

'This morning,' Regina says, gently extracting a strand of her hair from the baby's grip. It sticks out a little and Emma should really not dwell on whether or not it makes Regina look more attractive than usual. 'I stepped outside and… there she was.'

A girl, then. Right. 'Was there a note or anything?'

'Just this,' Regina says, retrieving what looks like a business card. Blank, with one word in neat generic print, bang on the middle: LILY.

'And do you have any idea who would send this- her, I meant her- to you?' _Lily_. Who is a baby.

'I wouldn't ask for you assistance if I did, Sheriff,' Regina tells her.

Emma turns the card in her hands over and over again, hoping her special Savior Magic will offer some sort of a clue.

It doesn't, of course. Her Savior Magic is kind of pathetic that way.

'It's not Gold's style,' she tells Regina. Sure, he conned Ashley into nearly giving up her firstborn and managed to find an adoption agency shady enough to hand Henry over to a fairytale character in a fairytale town no one's ever been to, but Gold is flashy. His cons come with signed contracts and gloating, endless gloating, not to mention that smirk that will get him punched in the face one of these days.

Emma tries not to think of the strings he must've pulled to fool the system and get hold of Henry for Regina, but it's impossible not to, not when there's a tiny squirming bundle in Regina's arms that she's holding oh-so-gently, her eyes really… soft and _kind_. Protective, almost, although she has no reason to… protect this… little thing that's now cooing at her, oh god, _what _has Emma landed herself into?

'It's not,' Regina agrees. 'You need to find out who's behind this, and how she can be reunited with her family.'

'I… Right. Of course,' Emma says. That's her job description, isn't it? Emma Swan, President of the Lost and Drifting Club. She finds people. 'She'll, uh, stay with you in the meantime?'

'Unless you can think of a better option?' Regina snaps, features regaining their familiar sharpness.

'No!' Emma says quickly, because _no_. Absolutely not. She doesn't know what twisted fairytale plot is behind any of this or if it was just some asshole who thought it'd be fun to frame the Evil Queen for kidnapping a baby, but the thought of snatching her away from the arms she appears to be so content in and hand her over to the fucking fairies or whatever the equivalent of Child Protective Services is in this town these days— Wait, _she's _not the equivalent, is she? The town _is_ kind of crazy about her super Savior Powers, shit, and it's not as though they can talk to _actual _social workers about what goes on in Storybrooke—

'You will do your job, Miss Swan,' Regina says, imperious. 'In the meantime I'll ensure that the child is cared for.' A small hand reaches out to grab her nose.

'Is there more coffee?' Emma says.

* * *

There is, in fact, more coffee. Regina is even gracious about it, making only one snide remark about Emma's slowness. Coming from Regina, it's practically _nice_.

But then, she supposes, it's kind of hard to maintain that level of bitchy with an armful of tiny baby-in-a-basket.

Right.

'So, uh, I should be off investigating, but d'you need help with anything? You know, baby supplies and stuff?' Emma says. She's been around enough babies in the system to know they're high maintenance. If anyone _could _handle all of it without breaking out in a cold sweat every now and then it's Regina, and somehow the thought is infinitely reassuring.

The kid could've ended up at Gold's instead. Who did bring up Neal once upon a time but probably eats babies for breakfast now. Jesus.

'As a matter of fact, yes,' Regina says, rocking the baby gently in her arms. 'I need you to come to the hospital with me.'

'Are you sure that's a good idea?' Emma blurts. 'I mean, right _now_?'

'If you're concerned about gossip, Sheriff, let me assure you that the entire town is aware of this development by now. This is Storybrooke,' Regina tells her, matter-of-fact, as though _this is Storybrooke _explains _everything_. Stupid little cow town. 'Although it's probably for the best if _you _carry her instead of me. I take it you can manage holding on to an infant without causing her lasting damage of some sort?'

And that's how Emma ends up marching into the hospital with a tiny sleeping baby in her arms, the (retired. hopefully) Evil Queen in tow.

If people gape, really, it's none of their business.

* * *

Emma hangs around feeling thoroughly useless while Regina has a suspiciously flirtatious conversation with a terrifying nurse and disappears with her and the baby shortly after. She's drained yet another cup of (terrible) coffee from the hospital cafeteria by the time Regina returns, accompanied, this time, by her least favorite doctor.

'The child's healthy, from what I can tell,' Whale says. 'The hospital will update you once the reports are ready.'

'Great,' Emma says, noting the way Whale won't stop fidgeting. 'That's good, right? She's healthy. That's a good thing.' She's missing something here, clearly, going by the way Regina purses her lips. 'Is there something else?'

'Victor here is under the impression that there might be more to the child than meets the eye,' Regina says, lips curling with distaste. 'He suggested we speak with Gold for further _research_.' She clutches the now-quiet bundle closer to her chest, and okay, Emma should definitely _not_ be thinking how attractive that fierce Momma Bear look is on the Evil Queen.

'I'm a man of science, Your Majesty,' Whale says, holding up his hands as though in surrender. 'This is far beyond my area of expertise.'

'_What_?' Emma has to ask. It's not like she has much faith in his so-called scientific expertise. The book was one of the few things she did read through in high school.

'Magic, of course,' Whale says, nonchalant, and the slight shadow that passes on Regina's otherwise bland exterior is almost certainly… fear?

'What?' Emma says again. 'Are you _trying_ to tell me the kid is… _cursed_?' It's hard for her to _say_ the word, even after all this time. That's exactly the kind of fucked up fairytale shit that would happen in Storybrooke, kids and curses and super special destinies, and grown-ups who should know far better than to make them foot soldiers in their petty feuds. Or saviors. Whatever. 'Is that why they left her with you?' she tells Regina, not caring if she sounds increasingly hysterical. In fact, if any situation _demands_ hysterical, this is it. 'As some kind of _payback_?' The thought makes her feel sick.

'I'm not saying anything,' Whale says, at the same time as Regina says, 'Or a bid to _assist _her, perhaps?' Sharp, in a way that makes Emma deflate instantly.

Damn.

'I'm just putting forth a suggestion,' Whale says. 'One I think you should seriously consider.'

'I will, Victor,' Regina says. 'Thank you.'

And with that, she sweeps away, somehow managing 'menacing' even with a possibly-cursed baby in her arms.

* * *

The drive back is awkward, to say the least.

'I'm sorry,' Emma says when the silence becomes too tense to bear. 'I shouldn't have freaked out.'

Beside her, Regina hums noncommittally, which could mean anything from 'your idiocy affronts me' to 'I'm planning to kill you in your sleep as we speak, mwahaha'. Her face, when Emma dares steal a glance, is as impassive as ever.

She thinks she may have _hurt _Regina, and that's just not right.

'I… This sucks, okay?' she tries again, if only because she needs to distract herself from that awful, clawing feeling in her gut. Past experience says it's a sign of doom and destruction, but she isn't sure she has the words to explain. 'At least in the real world people just deposit kids in dumpsters because they're too poor to take care of them or something.'

'I'm aware,' Regina says, dry.

'Not that your place is a dumpster or anything,' Emma adds quickly. 'It's really nice. Not messy at all. I don't know how you manage to keep it so—'

'You're rambling, Miss Swan,' Regina interrupts. Her tone is as dry as ever, but there might, in fact, be a small smile playing on the corner of her lips.

'Sorry,' Emma says, heart soaring in spite of the million other things that should be bothering her right now.

* * *

In between running errands that involve a massive amount of baby supplies and eating the delicious, delicious food Regina plies her with, Emma fires a couple of quick texts to Mary Margaret and Henry, sending her love and letting them know that she won't be home for lunch.

She's surprised Mary Margaret hasn't called to grill her about the baby yet, but she's not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Twenty eight years of being a school teacher in a cursed town has given her the uncanny ability to ask the most unsettling questions. Emma's not sure she's up for answering _any_, not when she herself is full of so many of them.

'So you really think the kid might be under some sort of a, uh, curse?' Emma says, lounging on Regina's _seriously_ decadent couch while Regina changes diapers with a sort of mesmerizing efficiency.

'I haven't ruled out the possibility,' Regina says, drawing absent patterns on the kid's stomach while she lets out a happy gurgle.

Emma thinks of the fear she saw in Regina's face when Whale mentioned the same possibility, and says, 'What can I do to help?' She's not sure of the _what _or the _how_, but her Super Savior Powers gotta count for _something_, right?

Or so she hopes. Some Savior she is.

Having Regina on her side is oddly reassuring.

'Just do your job, Sheriff,' Regina says. It's delivered with considerably less venom than usual, and that's reassuring too. 'You will conduct your investigation, and I will conduct my own.'

Emma watches the baby squirm. She's looks small and helpless, and nothing at all like a shapeshifting monster child of doom. God, she _hopes _she's not under some evil curse.

'We'll share notes, right?' Emma says. 'Like a team. A crime-fighting team.' The Savior and the Evil Queen. Which, all right, sounds more like a bad comedy act when she puts it that way, but the thought cheers her considerably.

They're a good team.

'You watch too much television,' Regina says mildly.

* * *

It's odd how reluctant she feels leaving Regina's company.

It's just the day's general weirdness, Emma reasons, and lingering concerns about possible curses—nothing to do with how she may or may not in fact enjoy Regina's company, far, far more than she's willing to admit to herself.

That's also what makes her pause and ask, 'Will you be all right?'

Weirdness. That must be it.

'Why shouldn't I be?' Regina says, raising an eyebrow in a way that would make a lesser soul turn tail and _run_.

Emma's never been one for self-preservation, though, and so she stands ground and says, 'With the baby, I mean. If Whale's right and there's magic involved—'

'I'm more than capable of dealing with magical threats, Sheriff,' Regina says.

It's her cue to leave—Regina's not exactly being subtle—and Emma decides not to push her luck, even if she can't wipe away the memory of a giant Dementor trying to suck Regina's soul and the sheer helplessness that Emma felt then, the absolute _need _to ensure that _Henry's mom_ was _fine_. The day at the mines and the quiet, terrible determination in her eyes as she prepared to _die as Regina_. That day, she'd wanted a hero's end—she'd wanted to die _good_, cherished in the memory of a son who loved her regardless of who she had been in another life.

Yeah.

* * *

'A _baby_?' is the first thing Belle says when Emma walks into the library. 'How did _that _happen?'

Emma can only manage a groan in response.

'Sit,' Belle tells her, her smile wide and sympathetic. 'Tell me how I can help.'

Even after all these months, Belle prefers the library to the Mayor's office, and Emma can't say she doesn't understand. The library's comfortable—far homier than the creepy wallpaper Regina decorated her office with. It suits Belle, with her kind eyes and warm smile and her willingness to always _help_.

And besides, she can't really imagine anyone _but _Regina in that office, Mayor Mills and her power suits and her insane mind games. God, sometimes she misses Mayor Mills and her insane mind games, and on a scale of one to ten, how absolutely pathetic is that?

At least it didn't involve fairytale crap.

Belle's smile diminishes as Emma's story progresses, and by the end of it she appears concerned and alarmed. 'A curse?' Belle frowns. 'Are you certain?'

'Regina's looking into it,' Emma tells her. 'I guess she'll be talking to Gold at some point.'

'That's great, I—'

'Look, Belle,' Emma says carefully. 'I know this isn't fair to lump this on you but you're still the best person for the job so just help me with this one thing, okay?' Time to lay her cards on the table. 'Did Gold have anything to do with it?'

Belle sighs, and Emma experiences a moment of empathy that she chalks up to the day's general weirdness. 'I'll find out,' Belle says, firm.

* * *

David and Snow are out in the yard arguing over Daisy's latest indiscretion when Emma reaches home, just in time for dinner.

Mary Margaret has a thorny relationship with the newest member of the household, named so by Henry because of her first brush with Mary Margaret's precious flowers the day David brought her home from the shelter, smiling like he'd won the lottery.

'A _goat_?' Snow had said, eyes nearly falling off their sockets. '_Here_?'

'We kept goats when I was a boy,' David said, unperturbed. 'It'll teach Henry responsibility.' And so Daisy stayed, to Snow's utter dismay. In spite of the many conversations they are engaged in every day—her mom actually talks to animals, yeah—Snow and Daisy have failed to nurture a loving rapport.

Emma can't tell what responsibility Henry has learned so far because it's usually David who feeds her, bathes her and tries to keep her out of trouble, but Emma doesn't mind Daisy. She smells no worse than Hook on More Rum Day—which, pretty much, is everyday on the Jolly Roger—and despite her penchant for vandalizing Mary Margaret's flowerbeds, she's a nice, quiet presence to have around. Emma has spent many a night lounging in the hammock with Daisy for company, asking no questions while she observes the world around her with her deep, placid eyes.

She appears perfectly content now as she chews on what looks like—yep—Mary Margaret's geraniums, even as Mary Margaret screeches, 'There was dung in the flowerbed! Do you know what she _said_ when I asked her why she did it?'

'It's good manure?' David says, sheepish. Emma has to stifle a laugh.

That has the pair of them turning in her direction, and Mary Margaret's ire vanishes as she says, 'Emma! Ruby called! Is it true that someone sent Regina a _baby_?'

Emma winces. 'The whole town has heard by now, hasn't it?' she says, although she already knows the answer. Trust Ruby to serve as Storybrooke's very own hyperactive carrier pigeon. Carrier wolf? Wolf pigeon. Whatever. 'That's why she called me. She wanted—' The rest of her words disappear in an undignified _oof _as a not-so-small-anymore figure launches itself straight at her midsection, knocking the breath out of her. 'Ow, kid!'

'Emma!' Henry says, positively _glowing _with excitement. 'Did someone send my mom a _baby_? I heard Grandma talk to Ruby! Why would someone send her a baby? Is that why she called you? Can I go and see?'

'Whoa, slow down, slow down,' Emma says, still reeling from the projectile Henry assault and the barrage of questions in breathless ALLCAPS.

'Why don't we discuss this over dinner?' David says, ever so reasonable. 'You must be hungry.'

* * *

Emma explains the situation to the three expectant faces to the best of her ability, carefully avoiding the matter of the possible-curse for a later, Henry-free conversation. Yes, someone send Regina a baby in a basket. Yes, she's a real baby. No, Emma doesn't know why. Yes, she will find out, and hopefully return the baby-in-a-basket where she belongs.

'Homework, Henry,' she says at last in her best mom voice, when it looks like Henry plans to spend the rest of the evening discussing this latest source of excitement. It sounds more convincing when Regina says it, but it appears to work on Henry who pouts and dutifully trudges back to his bedroom, stomping his feet loudly in protest. There's a loud, tell-tale door slam. He'll be discovering heavy metal any day now.

Perhaps it's just that she's growing old—but hey, her son's nearly a teenager—but Emma's had enough of excitement to last her a lifetime.

'What else?' Mary Margaret says as soon as Henry's out of earshot. 'I know there's something you didn't say in front of Henry.'

Emma double-checks the staircase—her son's a sneaky, sneaky bastard—before she says, keeping her voice as low as possible, 'When we took her to the hospital, Whale suggested the possibility of a curse. Regina's looking into it.'

'On the baby?' David says, aghast. 'Who would do that?'

'Some people we know,' Snow says darkly.

Waaaaait a minute. 'Are you _seriously_ suggesting this is some sort of a convoluted plan cooked up by Regina?' Emma says. 'Seriously?'

For once, Snow looks abashed. 'I didn't mean it that way,' she says. 'Regina's been…on her best behavior.'

'Gold?' David says. 'But why?'

Emma says the same thing she told Regina this morning, 'It's not his style. But I'm not ruling out the possibility.'

'That's a good decision,' Snow says. 'Did you talk to Belle?'

Emma's _son_ is nearly a teenager. She shouldn't be this much of a sucker for her mother's approving smile, but apparently that's all it takes—a nod and a smile. That tilt of her head that says Emma did something right. Her stupid heart clenches more painfully than it ever did when Cora reached in and _grabbed _with a cold, iron fist.

Jesus.

'Yeah,' she mumbles, not looking her in the eye. 'I'll keep you posted. Like I said, I'm investigating.'

'I'll do everything I can to help,' Snow says, eyes shining with the power of goodness and light. 'No child deserves such a fate.'

'Yeah,' Emma says. She needs air, and a drink or three.

* * *

She texts Regina against her better judgment, a simple: _U ok?_

It will, hopefully, not annoy Her Majesty _too much_. She might even deign to reply.

_Everything is fine_, buzzes her phone shortly after. Emma's not sure why she was expecting anything more informative. Regina's hardly the type to pour her feelings over babies in baskets over a text message. She didn't even _look _overwhelmed at any point—the picture of poise and dignity while Emma flailed about.

_Cal if u need help_, she texts nonetheless. And adds a second, _Baby stuff 2, ok?_, for good measure.

Perhaps she's hyperventilating right now, with no one but baby Lily as witness.

It's a testimony of how far they've come when Regina merely responds with a _You forget I've done this before, Miss Swan_ instead of commentary on Emma's lack of gainful employment or her typing habits.

'I hate fairytales,' Emma tells Daisy, who looks back at her with serene, unblinking eyes. 'Don't tell anyone, okay?'

'Baa,' Daisy says, amiable as ever.

The night air is cool on her cheek. Emma lies back in her hammock and watches the stars, bright and shining and so very far away.

* * *

**Note: **

I am not the quickest writer in the world, but putting this out here to remind myself to write more often. Many thanks to modestroad and Mary for reading and general encouragement. Your feedback is adored.

- The story is set post-Neverland, does not take into account Pan's bodyswitch and anything after.

- Daisy the goat is a product of deemnfic's 'state of the goat' conversations on Tumblr, and in honour of my grandfather who did in fact get my mother a baby goat (among other pets) to teach her responsibility.


	2. Chapter 2

2.

Emma wakes to the dulcet tunes of her son singing along to Justin Bieber on her iPod. And by that, she means loud and terribly off-key, and wait, how is that song even _on _her playlist?

"Henry!" she growls. It's more of a whimper than growl, really.

"Good morning," he tells her, mischief written all over his little face. "I got you coffee."

She's still half-asleep, but something unfurls inside her chest at the sight of that smile. A weight she didn't know she'd been carrying—or perhaps she'd grown too accustomed to it. Her kid's a _good _kid, _innocent_ and _happy _and all those magic things she never got a chance be. He went through hell in Neverland and yet here he is, grinning at her like everything's all right in the world and he'll never have a chance to doubt her again.

That last part is too good to be true, but Emma will keep her feel-good delusions for the moment. She just got him back.

A glance at her phone shows it's a little past nine—at least he waited till a fairly decent hour.

Although…

"Kid," Emma tells him. "Did you steal Mary Margaret's credit card again?"

"Grandpa's," he says, unrepentant. "His password's easy." And okay, maybe the apple—heh—didn't fall too far from the tree in this case. Not that David's password should be particularly difficult to guess, it's probably 'lovemarymargaret' or 'snowrocks' or something equally obvious. But he's still a _kid_, not-fucked up and _loved_ the way she could only dream of when she was his age. That's all Regina, and her brain comes to a grinding halt at the thought of Regina with a tiny Henry-shaped bundle in her arms.

It jumpstarts again when Henry says, "Drink your coffee! We have to go and help my mom!", impatient.

"We do?"

"She called and said that she needs our help!" Henry says, earnest. A little _too _earnest.

"Were those her exact words?" Emma says, narrowing her eyes.

"Yes?" Henry says. And when Emma refuses to budge, he says, "She called and said that she needs _your _help. I want to go and help too." His pout, Emma notes, has achieved new levels of perfection.

A good thing she's _not _a sucker, then. "Her house, her rules, Kid," Emma says with shrug.

It's not that she doesn't think Regina won't be pleased to see Henry—far from it. At his age, Emma would've given anything to have a mom who looked at her the way Regina looks at Henry. Like he's the only light in her world, a shining beacon in darkness. But she has a feeling this new… situation might end in some vintage Storybrooke insanity, and Regina wouldn't want Henry around for that, not when he's just been through what he did.

Henry looks at her like a tiny kicked puppy.

* * *

"Your son is dying of curiosity," is the first thing Emma says as she brushes past Regina into the foyer, enjoying the way Regina's eyes soften and melt. There's magic in the way Regina responds every time Emma mentions their son to her, vulnerable and wide-eyed, longing etched on the lines of her face. 'He wanted to tag along.'

The faint hint of surprise—_disbelief_ that Henry _does _want to see her—and the quiet joy that lights her up from the inside: it gets Emma every damn time, tugging at her chest. One of these days she's going to give in and do something suicidal like pull her in for a bearhug, whisper in her ears that it's gonna be okay, _they're _gonna be okay. Who knows, if she tries it enough times, Regina might even believe her.

"I thought you might want to… wait. Before we sort this out, I mean," Emma says.

Her face falls, just a fraction. But she simply nods and says, "Yes."

She's led to Regina's study, the one where they'd exchanged words over a glass of cider while Regina looked at her like she'd devour her whole. _What a way to go_, she'd thought then, looking at Regina's legs and the air of incandescence about her.

_Focus_, _Swan_, she has to tell herself, and shifts her attention to the giant moldy tomes on Regina's desk. There's a half-empty mug of coffee placed beside it—Regina's clearly been hard at work—and a cute pair of reading glasses she didn't know Regina owned.

"You, uh, found anything?" Emma says, feeling thoroughly useless yet again. "How's the kid?"

"I've been researching," Regina says. "She's asleep. We have to be quiet."

"We… do?" Emma gulps, because her treacherous mind takes her straight to the gutter. Always.

"Give me your hand," Regina says.

"I… My hand?"

"Yes, Emma, your hand," she says, thoroughly impatient with Emma's fumbling. "Or have you forgotten every bit of your magical instruction after returning to Storybrooke?" It's her sexy schoolteacher voice, oh god, Emma's going to _hell._

Regina's hand is warm in hers and she doesn't seem to notice that Emma's palms are kind of sweaty, or maybe she's just toying with her, you never know with the—

"We need to set up wards," Regina says, interrupting Emma's increasingly panicked chain of thought. "My magic is sufficient to put up something that prevents incursions or would-be glory hunters, but I thought it best to combine our magic in case the need to contain a magical eruption from inside ever occurs." Her thumb draws small circles on the back of Emma's hand, gentle.

"You want to magic-proof the house, basically," Emma determines. "You think that's necessary?" She doesn't want to think about it, doesn't want to acknowledge the possibility that the baby-in-a-basket currently sleeping peacefully somewhere in this house is a shapeshifting monster. Or, you know, under the shadow of a dark curse that will consume and destroy her, even before she's old enough to spell 'curse'.

At least when _she _was a kid she thought her only curse was to be alone and unloved for all of eternity.

She's dealing, now that she has a family. Friends who care, and… allies like the woman whose hand she's currently holding. For magic, that is.

"I've been researching," Regina says, her face unreadable. "I want to be certain."

"Sure," Emma says.

"You will explain this to Henry if he asks," Regina says, gripping her hand a little tighter. "Follow my lead."

* * *

Afterwards, Emma's boneless on Regina's plush couch while Regina fetches her coffee and 'something to eat'. The baby's been strangely silent in the hour that it took them to get the wards up—or was it just a few minutes? Emma can't tell.

Magic always has a price, and when it's magic with Regina—powerful enough to realign planets, and she won't let herself think what that might mean, she _can't_—it comes with a sense of mellow contentment that feels nothing like a mind-blowing romp in the bed, nope. If she closes her eyes and let's herself imagine—which she won't, make it stop!—well.

She hopes she doesn't look too guilty when Regina shows up with a mug and pile of BLTs.

"You'll get used to it," Regina says. "Eat."

"I feel like I've ran a marathon," Emma says, just barely able to reach for the inviting mug right in front of her. "Does it always feel this way?"

"In the beginning," Regina says. "Rumpelstiltskin was a hard taskmaster. It didn't take me very long to get used to complicated spells without losing too much of my strength."

Which, ew.

The thought of Gold's greedy mitts on a young Regina's hand while he cackles and whispers seductive words in her ear— _Ew_.

It makes her unaccountably sad, although it's the last thing she'll ever tell Regina.

Fairy Tale Land was one fucked up place. Emma's seen the worst this world can offer and yet she can't imagine growing up _there_, the land of her forefathers her parents wax eloquent about.

Neal crossed worlds to run away from the horrors of that land. Regina cursed an entire world and killed her own father. Which, again— Jesus.

"What did you find?" she asks Regina, if only to take her mind away from her increasingly morbid train of thought. Regina's past speaks for itself, but somehow, sitting across her in her study and munching on a pile of delicious BLTs, Emma can't imagine not trusting her now, foolish though she might be for taking such a chance. Her admittedly stupid heart says otherwise, still beating warm in the glow of their shared magic. "Any leads?"

"A few," Regina says. "Most of them too far-fetched to consider." She purses her lips in the way that means she's going to be vague and tight-lipped for now, and Emma's just going to have to deal.

"But enough for you to be worried about, I dunno, magic go splodey?" Emma presses on, waving her hands in illustration.

It gets exactly the reaction she was expecting: a withering glare worthy of the Evil Queen. It's just—and she doesn't know how to frame this in any fashion that will earn a favorable response from Regina—it worries her, Regina on her own like this in her magic-proofed house, capable though she is of dealing with most magical threats. And the kid, Christ, _the kid_.

"I'm merely being cautious," Regina says, still annoyingly vague and nonchalant.

And okay, perhaps Emma's a tad hurt—just a tiny bit. She may not understand much about magic, but they're supposed to be a team. Granted, Regina's idea of a team involves her barking orders while the rest of the peasants comply, but Emma's not Mary Margaret and she's certainly _not_ given to blurting sensitive information that affects the fate of a small, helpless child. Regina should know that by now, at least.

"I guess I'll be off, then," Emma says, not caring if she sounds a little petulant. "Henry's been texting every five minutes."

That part, at least, is true. His last text reads _I wanna help pleeeease don't be mean Emma_!, which is kind of hilarious, but she's also not sure if Regina wants him mixed up in all this so soon after Neverland.

"Henry has always been very curious," Regina says. There's that maternal glow again, doing strange things to Emma's stupid heart. "Curious and bright."

"Gets that from me," Emma says with a shrug, nicking the last sandwich to munch on her way. Some old habits die hard. "I haven't told him everything yet."

"He doesn't like it when things are kept from him," Regina says, eyes darkening a fraction.

"Will you—"

"Talk to him," Regina says. "Talk to him before his curiosity leads him to trouble again."

Which is a dick move, by the way, because what the _hell_ is Emma gonna tell their son when she's in the dark herself?

Some team they are.

* * *

Emma's worked up enough that she ignores the buzzing of her phone. It's probably Mary Margaret. She'll deal with her questions and appease Henry (whose latest text simply reads _;_;_) later.

She's been driving aimlessly around the town, trying to quell the feeling of disappointment in her gut. Storybrooke's pretty at this time of the year, picture perfect small town in its full autumnal glory. If this were a _normal_ coastal town in Maine, the place would be trawling with tourists from the city, taking photos of leaves with their iPads and raving about the fresh air.

If anyone asks, she's patrolling. Important sheriff business.

She isn't paying attention when the Bug rolls into Market Street, which is why she misses the first signs of chaos. Sure, there's Mr. Crabbe out there, making angry hand gestures at a few bystanders, but that's pretty much an everyday given his general temper and holy shit, is that a—

The Bug protests the sudden halt with an impressive-sounding screech, but Emma's already flying out of the driver's seat to gape upwards at the monstrosity that's currently floating a few feet above her head. It's large and _sparkly_, casting an enormous shadow and wait, are those words?

Emma spots a T and K and what she thinks is an O and another K.

"Tick tock," says a voice from behind her. A furry paw lands on her neck, then, and before she has the opportunity to protest, there's twenty pounds of giant monkey on her shoulder, burrowing affectionately into her hair.

"Sorry about that, boss," says Deputy Siddiqui, flashing his trademark grin. "He just really likes you."

"He's a public health hazard," Emma grumbles, even as the damn monkey chitters into her ear. "And _heavy_."

_That_ earns her bared teeth and an outraged glare. "Now you've hurt his feelings," Ali tells her. "Abu's sensitive, you know."

"_Abu_ needs to _stop _trying to pick my pocket and get off of me," Emma says. "And _you_ need to tell me what the hell's going on here."

"Abu!" Ali says with a gasp that's one hundred percent feigned. "Are you trying to get us fired?"

Right on cue, the monkey clambers on to his usual perch on Ali's shoulder and hangs his head as though thoroughly ashamed.

Which he isn't, of course. Because he's a pest and a nuisance, and Emma has no idea why he has a custom-made police badge of his own _and_ an allowance consisting of an apple a day.

"What's going on, Ali?" Emma says. Time to focus on important things. Like: "What the hell is that thing up there?"

"Got a call from Mr. Crabbe. I was in the station," Ali says with a grimace. Emma winces in sympathy, because _no one _should have to be on the receiving end of _that_ tirade. "So I took off and there's… this," he says, waving a hand in the general direction of the sparkling silver monstrosity. "It says 'tick tock'. I don't know why. But you haven't seen anything yet."

"There's _more_?"

Ali and Abu nod in unison. "And, um, Yasmin's already here with Mr. Glass. I didn't call her, I swear."

Great. There goes her Sunday. Or well, what was left of it.

* * *

Walking down to Princess Lane is a bit like walking into a sparkly silver disaster zone.

It's a cute little street on a normal (for Storybrooke) day, home to all sorts of local businesses and tiny eateries with their colorful furniture and pretty umbrellas on the sidewalk. Right now, though. There isn't an inch that isn't enveloped in glitter right now. The road's all silver and she's ankle-deep in glitter, wishing she'd remembered to wear shades for once. It's like the fairies got drunk and threw up fairy dust all over the place.

The shops have downed their shutters and there's overturned furniture everywhere, not to mention god knows how many more of those float-y graffiti monstrosities hanging ominously in the air, all bearing the same words: _TICK TOCK_. What the actual fuck.

Every now and then, one of the monstrosities go _F-O-O-M_, spraying even more glitter.

"Wow," Emma says.

"My thoughts exactly," Ali agrees. Even Abu—who, Emma notes with some irritation, is now sporting a pair of stylish miniature aviators—appears overwhelmed by the spectacle.

And then there's Captain Hook, covered head to toe in glitter and dragging one of the Lost Boys by the ear. He's one of the older ones, lanky and disheveled. Also covered in glitter, but right now, who isn't?

"Swan," Hook says, flashing her a grin that probably would've passed as rakish if he weren't, you know, _sparkly_. There's glitter on his teeth.

"Hook." Emma nods. "Care to explain why you're manhandling that kid?" She's kinda ashamed to admit that she doesn't actually know all of their names.

"I didn't do it," says the kid in question. "Let go of me!" He's shifty and wild-eyed in the way all the Lost Boys are. They don't trust grown-ups, not really, not even the Savior who promised them a home and a family and did jack all about it. Yeah.

"Not so fast, lad," Hook says. "You have some explaining to do."

"I didn't do it!" The kid protests, only to have Hook tug at his ear once more. "Ow," he says. Abu chitters in excitement, evidently enjoying the drama.

"Alright," Emma says. "Enough. Hook, let go of the kid's ear. Are you telling me he's behind this— whatever this is?"

"I'm not!" The boy says, rubbing at his now-released ear. "I didn't do anything, Savior, I swear!"

"I saw him," Hook insists. His beard sparkles in the late afternoon sun. "I was at the Mermaid Tavern," he says, "trying to obtain a decent pint." The Mermaid's one of the few establishments in town that'll still serve him alcohol. Granny banned him last month for getting into a scuffle with Gold and terrifying the diner's other patrons in the process. Emma had her own share of yelling from Granny afterwards, because apparently she encourages his drunken shenanigans. Which is decidedly unfair, because she _doesn't_.

She _may_ have accidentally blurted that she's not opposed to anyone punching Gold in the face.

"I heard the voices outside, thought there was a situation that could use my intervention." Hook says, jerking her back to the present. "That's when I spotted this little rascal fleeing the scene of crime. Thought you'd get away with, didn't you?" Which means he went trolling for a fight and ended up finding the boy in question. Emma's fluent in Hookspeak these days.

"Did you actually see him _do _anything?" Ali says, skepticism written all over his face. Abu nods in agreement. A TICK TOCK monstrosity floats overhead, casting oddly shaped shadows upon them.

"That's because I didn't!" The boy protests. He doesn't seem to be lying, from what Emma can tell. But her lie detector's shaky on the best of days, and it's possible he might have more information than he's letting on at the moment.

"That's a Lost Boy," Hook shrugs. "And he was skulking about. I know trouble when I see it."

"That's not _evidence_," Ali says. "I suppose we can take him to the station for questioning. Right, boss?" And Emma's about to agree when the kid breaks into a run—of course he does, it's what Emma would do in his place—with Hook in hot pursuit.

Things get a little chaotic after that.

* * *

They've gathered a considerable number of bystanders by the time Emma catches up with Hook, who's bodily tackled the kid and is now rolling about in glitter as the boy struggles to get away from his clutches. Hook's got a split lip and the kid sure is scrappy, giving as good as he gets. Years (centuries?) of Lost Boy training kicking in, Emma supposes.

It's the monkey who ends up breaking it up, landing squarely on top of Hook and pulling at his beard, causing him to howl in pain.

"Enough," Emma says, glaring down at the two of them.

"He was getting away!" Hook protests, sullen.

"I said enough!" Emma says, because she's in no mood for any of this shit. That hook of his is a dangerous weapon. "You've had your fun."

Hook's pout is one of being very misunderstood. It's cuter on Henry, though, and Emma's learned to ignore it even then. On most occasions, anyway.

"Call David. We're taking them to the station," Emma tells Ali. "And please ask the Mother Superior if the fairies can help us clean up this mess."

She kind of wishes she could call Regina instead, who'd probably sort the entire place out with one regal wave of her hand. Because Emma might be annoyed at the woman, but Her Majesty's nothing if not efficient.

_F-O-O-M_, goes yet another one of those awful things, and then Emma's being showered in silver glitter as well.

"That's a nice look on you, Sheriff," says another familiar voice, damn it, _damn it_. "Care to hold that pose?"

* * *

So there's glitter in her hair. And glitter all over her face. And glitter in her fucking teeth. And she's just been photographed by the gleeful _Storybrooke Mirror _photographer, who somehow happens to be miraculously unscathed by any of the glitter bombing and is currently beaming at her like the cat that ate the canary. Like Emma hasn't already graced their front page in a variety of embarrassing ways already.

"Hey, babe," says Ali, who's similarly covered in glitter now. The monkey, of course, moved away just in time, and he's now perched atop Yasmin's shoulder, grinning malevolently at the two of them.

"Deputy," Yasmin nods, all business. "Sheriff."

"Sheriff Swan," says the one and only Sidney Glass, freshly reinstated to his position as Storybrooke's resident gossipmonger by the Acting Mayor. Great. "Would you care to comment on this atrocity perpetrated upon innocent businessmen?"

"We're investigating the matter," Emma says, trying to brush some of the glitter off her hair.

"Are you telling us you have no idea who's behind this horrific crime?"

"Like I said," Emma says, "we're investigating. And you're getting in the way of our investigation, so buzz off."

"The people of Storybrooke want answers, Sheriff Swan," Sidney persists. It's a bit like old times, and Emma can't help but bristle.

"Listen, buddy—"

"You should discuss this with the Mayor's office, Mr. Glass," Ali intervenes, smooth as ever. For a fellow former thief, he sure has far more tact than Emma usually manages. "We're not taking any more questions, sorry. We've got an investigation to run."

And Belle _will_ field all questions with ease, Emma has little doubt. She's less hands-on than Regina ever was—being less of a control freak with a dark curse to cover up, that is—and _nice_ in a way that even Sidney can't find fault with, despite the gossipy articles about her and Gold that he churns out every other day. Belle's good press, mostly. Makes Emma's job easier.

A small part of Emma can't help but wish for Regina instead, working _with_ her and not against her like she did back in the days. Working to protect the town she cursed into being, their magic coming together with breathtaking ease even as their personalities clash and spar. Regina's just… efficient. Yeah. That's why.

* * *

Things go smoother once David shows up, bundling off a still-sulking (still sparkling) Hook and an increasingly terrified Lost Boy to the Sherriff's station. That is, right after he fishes out his phone and takes a photo of Emma in her current avatar, that _asshole_.

Emma sticks to clean up duty, Ali in tow, reassuring furious shop owners and getting Mr. Crabbe to _shut up_ about his damn lobsters.

"Doesn't feel like your run-of-the-mill vandalism, does it," Ali says, scratching his chin. "Or maybe I'm over-thinking this."

"You're not," Emma says, because she's thinking the same thing.

Eyewitness accounts don't amount to much. No one saw anything suspicious. No, they don't know what 'tick tock' is supposed to mean and would very much like for Emma to figure it out. Yes, the glitter bombs appeared out of thin air, and that never bodes well in a town with too much magic and too few people who truly understand how it works.

"Let's just wrap this up," she tells Ali, weary. "We'll have plenty of time to figure this out tomorrow." Tomorrow there'll be further interrogations. Meetings with Belle and quite possibly the Mother Superior, who is sort of the town's unofficial magic consultant by default, the other options being Gold and Regina. There'll be an _investigation_. Emma's pretty certain watching re-runs of SVU and successfully chasing the town's feline population off trees does not qualify the Storybrooke Sheriff's department for actual detective work.

There was a time when Emma answered only to herself.

Granted, she was also miserable and alone at the time. But she misses the freedom sometimes—to be able, simply, to walk away and not care.

Caring is exhausting business.

* * *

Emma scrubs herself for a good half hour when she gets home, rubbing at her skin until its raw and pink. It's not that there's any of that awful glitter left—Sisters Astrid and Tara saw to it, along with the rest of the glitter-affected area. It just _feels_ like she's covered in that crap.

Sisters Astrid and Tara also looked awfully shifty, which, again. Emma's just so _tired_.

There's a text waiting for her when she emerges from the shower, one that simply reads: _Talk to Tinker Bell_.

It's no less cryptic than anything else Regina has shared in the course of this long, frustrating day. But of course Regina's been keeping tabs, and the thought that Her Majesty deigned to drop some sort of a helpful hint, well. She probably has a ridiculously dopey smile on her face right now.

_thx_, Emma texts back, _things ok w the kid?_

_Everything is fine_, reads the next text, oh-so-predictable. She's annoyed with Regina, who doesn't seem to grasp the idea that she can _talk_ to Emma, even as she keeps instructing Emma to have conversations with everybody else. Hell, it probably _would_ kill her to admit that she might be having difficulty with changing diapers or whatever.

She thinks of Miss Baby-in-a-basket, cooing adoringly at Regina—who Emma's annoyed with, she _is_—with little regard for who she once was. Aaand there's that dopey smile again, her reflection on the mirror grinning back at her like a helpless fool.

The worst part is, Emma's not even sorry.

* * *

**Note: **Storybrooke's way too white. We don't have to keep it that way.

The action-y moments in this chapter was difficult to write, not to mention Hook's voice, augh. I'd love to hear what you think!


End file.
